‘Your book’s here.’ Jethro’s voice was gruff and seemed to come from deep within his twisted torso. He shot a suspicious glance at Charity. ‘Who’s this?’ ‘This young lady is Charity Crosse, and she recently lost her only living relative.’ ‘Why bring her here then? Has she come to mock a poor cripple?’ Dr Marchant let his hand fall to his side. ‘Now then, Jethro, that’s not the way it was at all. Don’t go frightening the poor child. She’s had enough to bear without you adding to her troubles.’ Charity backed towards the door. ‘This is a mistake, doctor. I ain’t staying here.’ ‘Who asked you to stay, young lady?’ Jethro turned his back on her. ‘I don’t need anyone, least of all an orphan child.’ ‘I’m not a child,’ Charity said with dignity. ‘I’ll have you know that I’m sixteen and I’ve been supporting both myself and my grandpa for years.’ Jethro limped over to the counter and snatched up a heavy tome. ‘That will be half a crown, doctor.
